


drown in me one more time

by ElasticElla



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dark, F/F, Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships, all the usual camille tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 22:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12220134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: Three things always come back the same in Clarissa: her hair, her fire, and her blood.





	drown in me one more time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mirror Image](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12036186) by [doctorkaitlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn). 



> title from garbage's you look so fine  
> & if anyone's curious about the necklace referenced, it's [this one](https://www.1stdibs.com/jewelry/necklaces/drop-necklaces/830ct-emerald-ruby-diamond-seed-pearl-18k-yellow-gold-pendant/id-j_825782/)
> 
> all the thanks to kaitlyn for letting me mess around in her au sandbox <3

Three things always come back the same in Clarissa: her hair, her fire, and her blood.

In a way every iteration of Clarissa is perfectly, horribly, the same. They meet, they clash, they date, Camille offers to turn her, Clary says no, Clary eventually dies. A few years later she comes back, the fire in her soul never out and Camille blames her own weakness on the curiosity of Clary’s resurrections. 

(She’s fairly certain it has something to do with the angel blood. But of her once-brothers, demon blooded and angel blooded, neither ever come back with her.) 

.

Clarissa draws as Camille feigns being asleep. Clarissa’s always softer when she thinks Camille to be unconscious. She doesn’t feel the urge to argue every other statement or fill every moment with action. It’s commendable, truly, how much Clarissa lives, but Camille aches to slow her. To enjoy moments easily, knowing there are endless more to come. 

“I know you’re awake,” she says, and Camille’s lips twitch into a smile. “I’m almost done.” 

“Did you sleep well?” Camille asks. 

“Mhmm,” a few quick quill movements, and Camille hears her toss the sketchbook as she jumps on the bed. The bed groans, a few feathers escaping, and Camille pushes down the blanket. Heavy curtains block all but a single stream of light in the corner, dramatic and harmless. (Clary thinks she has a skin condition, and Camille has yet to correct her. It is technically true.)

Clary climbs above her, warm weight pushing her out of her head. She leans down to drop a kiss on her lips, before rolling to her side, a hand making idle designs on Camille’s bare hip.

“You are doubtless the most beautiful muse Sappho could have sent me.” 

Camille’s lips curl up, “What makes you so sure she didn’t send you to me?” 

Clarissa laughs, loud and carefree, “Have you been asking the goddess for a lover?” 

Camille honestly can’t recall the last time she prayed to any deity for anything, waits a beat too long, her silence a confirmation. Clary’s giggles soften, and she presses kisses along her jaw. 

“It’s fine. I’m better suited to the devout follower, worshiper.” 

“Oh really?” Camille asks, pleased as Clary sucks a mark below her chin.

“I’ll show you,” Clary declares, a familiar challenging spark in her eyes.

(Tomorrow, she swears to herself, tomorrow Camille will tell her what she is.)

.

Camille doesn’t need to keep offering to turn Clary, she knows that. Has known it ever since the first time she came back. But Camille’s foolishly gotten herself addicted to the premise, and nothing- not the threat of never tasting near-pure angelic blood again, not even of what the others might do to a newly turned Clary- makes her hesitate. Too many of them already know she comes back, an ever-lengthening kill list.

What would it take to turn her she wonders, plays Clarissa a slightly different tune each time. No temptation ever works- not immortality, not wealth, not eternal youth- and Camille is begrudgingly amused. 

.

After the first few centuries, Camille stops introducing herself, forces herself to turn away from the bright flash of orange-red. The last death had been harder than usual, illness stealing Clary away before she even turned twenty-two, Clary begging for- Camille has other important pursuits. She’d much rather go to this evening’s estate sale and pick up a few pieces that will be worth small fortunes in a few hundred years. 

A week later, a curious Clarissa is in her shop, fingers dancing along the main display case. She doesn’t have runes this time, thinks she’s mundane. (When she’s raised by shadowhunters, they always clash more, harder. She intimately knows the bite of a shadowhunter’s blade, though Clary’s never so much as breaks her skin.)

“How much for the necklace?” 

“The emerald briolette? Four thousand.” 

Clary laughs lightly, stopping when Camille’s expression doesn’t change. “You can’t be serious.” 

Camille shrugs, “It’s from the 1920s, is in remarkable condition, and is over eight carats. Its value will only go up over time.” 

“I’m sure,” Clary says, tearing her eyes away from the necklace. “Is everything so pricey in here?” 

“It’s an antique shop,” Camille says, pulling out the necklace. 

“So much for a birthday present for mom,” Clary mumbles. 

“Would you like to try it on?” 

Clarissa’s eyes go comically wide, “Really, I can- yes. Yes, please.”

Camille sweeps around the counter, Clary holding her hair out of the way as she puts it on her. It looks just as perfect now as it looked when it was commissioned for her, a sweet nostalgia setting in her chest. Camille points to the 1940s vanity, and Clary goes over to the gilded mirror. 

“Wow,” she breathes, fingers trembling as she touches the emerald’s edges. “If I wasn’t destined to become a starving artist, I’d find a way to get this one day.” 

Camille smirks, “Perhaps you’ll become a famous artist and I’ll trade you a painting for it.” 

Clary laughs, comes back to her. “I’m working on a graphic novel, traditional art isn’t really my forte.”

Camille has a few paintings in the back that would beg to differ- but Clary’s talent does change with her rebirths. A lucky thing, or there would doubtless be a well-founded conspiracy in the art world. 

“Will you tell me about it?” Camille asks, and they settle on a pair of matching armchairs. They’re a modern set, a squashy leather not for sale but for friends or family unwillingly dragged to her store while their companions thumbs through every object. Comfortable enough to sit in for days Raphael has claimed, hates standing behind the counter when he works. 

Clary grins and dives into a story all about vigilante demons and the more questions Camille asks, the brighter she seems to glow. Eventually she gets a worried call from her mother and has to run out, a panicked look to the grandfather clock. Camille doesn’t bother reminding Clary she’s still wearing the necklace as she leaves, she did have a rather enjoyable evening. 

(The next night a flustered Clary comes in, apologies thick on her tongue. It's too easy to twist it into a dinner date, dessert dissolving into a pleasantly heated argument over politics and crème brûlée.)

.

Camille never goes looking for Clarissa, not after the first time. 

That the universe keeps her hair such a bright orange-red that Camille can easily spot it is a cursed blessing. 

.

“You can’t turn me Camille! I’m not one of your playthings that hangs around waiting for the eternal night. I want to dance in the sun and _live_.” 

Camille forces her jaw loose, a placid smile on her lips. “Once you turn-”

Clarissa’s laugh is too loud and cruel, “Kill me if you want. But I will _never_ crawl out of my grave.”

It simplifies matters. Clarissa clearly doesn’t love her- not that Camille needs such a petty emotion or has it herself- and if she won’t survive, there’s no reason left. 

“I hope you change your mind,” Camille says, and Clarissa’s cheeks flush an angry red. 

“Don’t you dare-” 

Clarissa’s buried within the hour, and Camille waits until just before dawn. 

This isn’t the last time she’ll kill Clarissa, hundreds more will follow. This isn’t even the most tragic or emotional, there’s no specific superlative that captures this death. It’ll stay in her memory though, as certain moments do. 

For this time _is_ special, this first time Camille doesn’t know that Clarissa will be born anew.


End file.
